Category Archives: Geek stuff

Newly Nerfed has a birthday

One year ago today, I launched this blog. I’d just been through six months of wondering “What the hell do I do now?” I was paralyzed, demoralized, and utterly frustrated by having had to give in to my disability and quit working. It didn’t help that the job I quit was the best I ever had, but it also didn’t matter. A really big, heavy door had just slammed shut on a really big part of my life, and I was forced to examine my new situation and my new identity.

While beginning to work this out, I dove headlong into the waters I’d only been treading up till then for lack of time and energy. Skeptical blogs and podcasts began to fill my day, and my Twitter stream became more and more populated by other skeptics. I revamped my Facebook page so that I could keep up with the discussions happening there. At first, my appetite was modest, but the more I consumed, the more ravenous I became. (Skepticism as subtraction soup.) I put myself through a serious skeptical bootcamp that was nothing but fascinating, educational, and exciting.

I love to learn, and although I couldn’t work, I could still do that. The skeptical community offered a place for me to do grad-school amounts of reading and synthesizing information, not to mention daily interacting with intimidatingly smart people who wanted to use critical thinking to make the world a better place. It was inspirational, revelatory, and ultimately showed me an alternative to my feelings of helplessness and, worse, uselessness.

I didn’t intend Newly Nerfed to be a skeptical blog. I thought it would focus more on the things I do still write about a lot, disability and chronic illness and nerdy stuff like games and movies. But it proved to be impossible to leave the powerful new focus in my life out of this blog. I connected so strongly to skepticism that I wanted to write about it, even as a neophyte. And the rest can be read in my posts.

When I started this blog, people were talking about TAM 7. Fascinating, I thought, but I couldn’t see myself at that kind of conference. Surely it was for the professors and physicians and scientists I’d been reading, and not for someone like me. And then a year later I was discussing the effects of James Randi’s public and vehement support of science-based medicine during his cancer treatments…with James Randi.

I can’t even begin to express how much TAM 8 meant to me. I had every kind of experience you hear about: meeting “old” friends for the first time, meeting new friends for the first time, having practical discussions, having meta discussions, learning things that are directly applicable to my interests, having my mind blown open by new ideas, meeting heroes and having actual discourse with them, and laying the groundwork for future projects. I came away from TAM wonderfully energized with plans and schemes for the coming year (and with gratitude for the luminaries who kindly allowed me to ambush them with an idea, and for their support of that idea).

A year ago I didn’t know what to do. I held on to my passion for learning, for making a difference, and for writing, none of which got hit by the nerf bat. And then I found myself in a community of people who shared those passions, and I’ve started to find my way. I am so grateful for this year and the incredible people I’ve met and worked with (and will work with in the future). I thank all of you so much, skeptics and believers, friends and strangers, for helping, teaching, and of course entertaining me so damn much this year. I especially want to thank “Surly” Amy Davis Roth and Desiree Schell for their early encouragement of an avid but nervous noob, and Daniel Loxton for being a role model of skeptical communication to which I continue to aspire.

Most importantly, I thank my husband Paul. Not a single step on this wonderful journey would have been possible without his love, care, and support. Throughout everything from health woes to skeptical successes, he has been unswervingly by my side, which I assure you is not always an easy place to be. None of what I’ve experienced, learned, or accomplished this year means anything without the joy I take in having my best friend and twu wuv to share it with. He challenges me to be better, and accepts me when I fail. And I mean, he’s a skeptical atheist gamer geek who can kick serious ass in meatspace — did I win the lottery or what?

Here’s to sticking around for year two. I appreciate it.

Post to Twitter Post to Delicious Post to Digg Post to Facebook Post to Reddit Post to StumbleUpon

Game a while in another man’s chair

When I was a kid, I was very curious about disabilities. I don’t know why; I didn’t have any friends or family members who were disabled, or at least not in the ways I could recognize. Yet in elementary school I avidly read biographies of Helen Keller, her teacher Annie Sullivan, and Louis Braille. By the time I was nine I had taught myself the sign language and Braille alphabets, and directed a video about Keller, in which I played the lead role (and left my glasses on in several scenes).

I never actually wished to be disabled, but I wanted to know what it was like for the people I’d read about. And reading wasn’t enough. I spent some days at my house blindfolded, navigating by touch and tripping over the cats. I spent a day at school not allowing myself to say a word. And I tried to “deafen” myself with earplugs and other improvised methods, only to be frustrated that I could still hear sounds.

Now I’ve had years of experience in college disability offices, been a sign language interpreter and teacher for deaf students, and know many people in “real life” and/or online with a range of disabilities. (I put that in quotes because who can tell the difference anymore?) And of course, I’m somewhat newly nerfed.

Speaking of the nerf bat, I’m writing a game review for AbleGamers, a website and foundation dedicated to improving accessibility in videogames, which I’ve recently joined as a staff writer. This means a new and challenging way to look at both games and disability. The questions I have to ask of a game force me not just to imagine what it might be like to be color blind, for example, but to really examine the functional implications of that. Is there any game information that is solely presented in colors without any other explanation? What about captions — are they available for both in-game and cutscenes, and what size and font are they, and how long do they stay on the screen? What if you only have the use of one hand? Are there gameplay or difficulty options for people with cognitive impairments?

It’s not just a checklist or a matter of scrutinizing the game’s options. When I’m considering all these questions and others, I play the game imagining, to the extent that I can, that I really need those captions, or can’t distinguish between green and red, or can’t use both mouse and keyboard. It’s like those experiments I used to do as a kid, testing an imagined lack of function against a world that’s mostly built to make use of that function. And something happened after I did my first game session analyzing its friendliness to color blind players: I found myself noticing some billboards or websites with problematic color schemes.

It’s good to look at the world this way from time to time. As more than one wise person has said to me, we’re all disabled in one way or another, or were, or will be, even if only temporarily. Maybe the next time you’re playing a game, turn down the volume all the way and see how it changes your experience. It doesn’t come close to the experience of being a deaf person, of course, any more than my day in a wheelchair at Blizzcon comes close to the experience of using a chair every day of one’s life.

But as I found out when I was young, even a short or small visceral experience can deepen your empathy, or help you consider the world for a moment in a new way. And besides, odds are relatively good that if you read this blog, you’re going to be playing a videogame soon anyway. (Anyone want to take a little survey on that? Leave a note in the comments or contact me.) And you can check on AbleGamers via Twitter or Facebook — one exciting development is an impending segment on CNN. And if I may end this post with a little fundraising, they will send you this limited edition poster by Justin Russo, the guy who did that other awesome videogame art, for a donation of $55 or more. It’s got a message that no gamer could disagree with.

This post contains only my own opinions and does not necessarily reflect those of AbleGamers. Full disclosure: I have been requested to plug this poster. Fuller disclosure: I didn’t actually know this before I wrote the post. Also: Many deaf people do not consider themselves to be disabled. In this post I’m using a very broad definition of “disability,” which does include deafness, for simplicity’s sake. And thanks to Patrick and Desiree for their kind assistance.

Post to Twitter Post to Delicious Post to Digg Post to Facebook Post to Reddit Post to StumbleUpon

A delicious friend is me!

Although I adore games like Mass Effect and Bioshock, being disabled by chronic illness means I’m not always able to handle, physically or mentally, real-time combat and tasks requiring hand-eye coordination. For those times when my brain wants to play something but my body wants me to curl up and not pick my head up off the pillow, I’ve become a great fan of turn-based games played in a web browser.

One of the best known, and one I’ve written about before, is Kingdom of Loathing (KoL). You are given a base 40 turns a day, which can be increased to hundreds depending on the food, drink, equipment, and other items you use. While there is a daily limit of 200 turns you can store up (in other words, you can’t stop playing for a couple of months and come back to thousands of turns), there is no limit to how much time you can spend playing all the turns you’ve generated. Other games, such as the delightful Paradox! The Musical (not an entirely disinterested plug), Metroplexity, and Game! hew pretty closely to KoL’s model of turn generation.

As much as I enjoy the intricate puzzles and engaging writing of the above titles, they can prove a roadblock to chronically ill gamers who may be especially limited by cognitive dysfunction, or are unable to read a lot or spend too much time on the computer. Echo Bazaar, by Failbetter Games, manages to create a remarkably vivid and intriguing world while keeping gameplay simple, and effectively forcing a casual approach.

Echo Bazaar takes place in Fallen London, which is what became of Victorian London when it was mysteriously carried away, down a mile beneath the surface. Inhabitants are defined by four character traits — Dangerous, Watchful, Persuasive, and Shadowy — and these traits, along with myriad other story-related characteristics (such as Hedonist or Ruthless), contacts (such as Bohemians, Constables, the Church, or Hell), and menaces like Wounds or Nightmares, develop your character as he, she, or it pursues an overarching Ambition. The gameplay is a mixture of card game and RPG, with an ambiance that evokes Lovecraft, steampunk, and other familiar themes while managing to keep Fallen London feeling mysterious and unique, not derivative. While it is text-based like the other games mentioned, the story is meted out in tantalizing tidbits rather than requiring a large investment of time to read.

Players of Echo Bazaar are rewarded for patience, due to its unusual turn-generation model, speaking of tantalizing tidbits; people who are used to the more common methods found in other games can be frustrated here, but it’s one reason I recommend it for chronically ill gamers. You are given 70 actions a day, which cannot be increased. You can “bank” a maximum of 10 actions and as you use them, they refresh at the rate of one every 7 minutes. This does mean that you are losing turns as soon as your candle refills if you aren’t logged in, so the best attitude to take is a very relaxed one. Don’t worry about playing optimally, or not having a chance to play on a given day. You don’t have to compete with anyone (PvP, in the form of the game “Knife and Candle,” is entirely optional) and as yet there is no “end” to the game past 90 to all stats. So it’s perfectly suited for people who want a casual but engrossing experience, who can only log in once or twice a day but will always find their 10 turns awaiting and will proceed slowly, but inevitably.

(One might observe that it is a bit cruel of the folks at Failbetter to invent such a fascinating world in which to get lost…and then to limit one’s time in that world so harshly. If one were to be gauche about it.)

If you’re on Twitter and you don’t play the game, you may consider it either a curiosity or a pain in the ass, depending on how considerate are your friends who play. Echo Bazaar requires you to log in with a Twitter account, but if you want, that can be the limit of your involvement. Players are enticed to tweet at least once a day, since every 24 hours you get the option to refill your actions immediately, giving you 20 to play at once instead of 10. However, this is not required, and you can also edit what you say aside from the link. (Which, as some reviewers have gotten wrong, is not a referral link. I loathe those games.) I usually replace the default text with something tailored for my character, and I also enjoy tweeting out some of the funnier, creepier, and most intriguing bits, so I created a separate account to avoid spamming my main account’s followers.

This brings me to my final point about the game. I’m not much for multiplayer anymore, since even if I do have the energy to game, I may not have the energy to interact with strangers. This is an area where I really enjoy Echo Bazaar‘s design. There are myriad benefits to interacting with fellow players, who are people you follow (mutually or not) on Twitter. However, it all takes place in an appropriately genteel manner, as if through a matchmaker. You send an invitation to something — possibly a “visit” to decrease the menace of your Nightmares — through the game, and the recipient gets an automated DM from the @EchoBazaar account. That person can then accept the invitation, conferring benefits on both of you, or reject it. (Update: Thanks to another player for pointing out that some of the “benefits” received from these interactions aren’t necessarily positive, depending on your goal.) There is no actual chat interface or need to form a group, which cuts down greatly on my own energy costs when playing a game. However, especially if you do create a separate account, you can get involved in conversations with your fellow players, in character or otherwise…and even with the Masters of the Bazaar and other notorious inhabitants of the Neath. The level of personal interaction is completely up to you.

I’m utterly enchanted by Echo Bazaar, and in a way I want more — more actions per day, more hints about…well, everything, and just who is this mysterious Cheesemonger? But the truth is I really enjoy the fact that it can be played with one finger while lying on my side, and that due to the mechanics it’s in my favor not to get obsessed. You’ll find me exploring the dark corners of Fallen London when my body’s put the kibosh on playing anything more taxing. And you can find my character, Ms. Antoinette Divertimenta, on Twitter. I await your visit, delicious friend.

(art © Failbetter Games)

Post to Twitter Post to Delicious Post to Digg Post to Facebook Post to Reddit Post to StumbleUpon